Collector's Item
by 4810
Summary: This pretty treasure needs to be intact when Bakura steals it. He just isn't sure how to go about that. Two part one-shot. Thiefshipping.
1. Chapter 1

I'm still exploring the relationship between Bakura and Malik, so here's a two-part one-shot. The first part is from Bakura's first person P.O.V and the second is from Malik's.

I think this is probably the closest I'll ever get to writing Bakura falling in love in a canon-based fic… Anyway, without further ado…

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><p>Stealing someone's heart would be a far less convoluted affair were it not just a figure of speech. Saw through their sternum, open up their ribcage, search through all the muck and cut out their sticky, bloody heart, yours for the taking.<p>

Unfortunately, it's far less simple in the idiomatic sense. I am not a romantic person. I never have been and I never wish to be. I have no interest in, have no time, no patience for romance. I'm not some poor, sad sap pining over an unattainable beauty, and I'm certainly not wallowing in self pity because I'm lost as to how to win the love of the object of my affections. I'm looking neither for love nor commitment, not looking to give my own heart. I don't really have a heart to give, neither figuratively nor literally. My literal heart belongs to someone else; my host and I share a body which I need to borrow from time to time. Thus by extension we also share a heart, and so it is not mine to give away. My figurative heart doesn't exist, period, and if it does, it's so black and twisted and unrecognisable it'd be laughable to call it one. To put it simply, I'm the very definition of heartless.

You may, then, be wondering why I'm talking about stealing someone else's heart in the first place if I'm not interested in loving or being loved. Well, that's easy enough to answer. I'm a thief, a collector. There's something so deliciously indulgent, so shamelessly hedonistic, about being able to step back and look at everything you've amassed, and so if something catches my eye, I take it. No treasure is too difficult for me to steal; if I want it, then I'll have it, simple as that.

Except it's not as simple as that. Not in this case.

Originally Malik only peaked my interest because he was the carrier of a millennium item. Plan A had been to track him down and relieve him of it, fairly amiably, only a few barely veiled threats here and there since I was feeling generous. If he hadn't been receptive to that, plan B had been to make good on those threats, kill him and relieve his corpse of it.

And then I laid eyes on him. It was the first time I can recall seeing something and feeling the all consuming need to have it. I was quite familiar with want, because I'd wanted for plenty, but such an aching need to have something was entirely foreign to me. And then he turned up, smug and bratty and self assured, and I just _had to have him._ I _needed_ to own him, body and soul, but how to go about it eluded me.

At first, I wasn't picky about the idea of his body and soul being separate when I procured them - seal away his conscience in an object and keep his body for my own; quite simple - but the more I stared at his cocky, defiant face with his amethyst eyes and his pale spun-gold hair and his golden-coppery skin, the clearer it became that half the beauty of Malik Ishtar was the combination of his body and soul together. This pretty treasure needed to be intact when I stole it, or it lost all value.

Kidnap held no appeal for me either. Stolen objects don't try to escape, but people are uncooperative like that. And besides, I had little experience in stealing a person, and I didn't wish to do a sloppy job, nor did I want to expend the time it would take to learn to do it properly. As much as I needed to have Malik for my own, I had a more important task to pursue - my raison d'être, if you will - and so this needed to be quick, or at the very least a side project.

And so that left me with the option of "stealing his heart", which really, all things considered, involved no stealing at all. In fact, the idea was that when I was done with him, he'd want to belong to me; to give himself to me.

If he was clever, and I saw intelligence lurking behind that pretty face and that cocky smirk, he'd realise from the start that any kind of relationship with me was a one-sided deal. He would be required to give all of himself and I would give none and that's just the way it would be. This presented a few problems, as most people don't like giving something for nothing, and Malik is certainly one of the most entitled people I've ever met. He thinks the entire world should fall at his feet and lick his shoes clean for him. I knew there was no way he'd ever willingly give himself away to me without expecting at least the same in return.

But that was okay. I was used to playing with puppets. It was just a matter of, shall we say, learning how to _manipulate_ their strings.


	2. Chapter 2

Bakura likes blood. I like power. And so when one thing leads to another and the two of us end up naked on the bed, bodies and lips clashing as if we're at war, it only makes sense that nothing about it is gentle. I draw my fingernails down Bakura's arms like needles, barely mindful of the bandage covering the not even day old wound on his bicep. He hisses like a snake, still a dangerous, predatory creature even though he lies under me, trapped beneath my weight.

"Again," he breathes, and from anyone else it would've have sounded like begging. But Bakura doesn't make requests, he makes demands, and now is no different. I may have gotten him to submit to me, but I'm a long way off getting him to beg.

I toy with the idea of ignoring him instead, simply to get him angry, but in the end it's just another way to exert my power and so I comply - sink my finger nails into Bakura's pale skin and scratch, slicing thin, pink lines down his arms that quickly well with red. The expression on Bakura's face is a sneer, but there's so much arousal in his eyes that I feel I could almost drown in it.

I have to tear my attention away, worried about being swallowed up by that bottomless stare, and instead grab a handful of Bakura's hair and tug on it, pulling his head back until his pale throat is exposed. His mouth opens in a short gasp of air and I quickly take the opportunity to dive in, our teeth clacking in my haste.

There is nothing soft and pliant about Bakura; his lips are dry and his kiss is ferocious, as though having me leading is making him furious. I smirk into the kiss at the thought, deliberately slowing the frenzied pace to something much slower, just to see how Bakura will react. It's a mockingly tender mixture of gentle pecks and falsely shy swipes of tongue, and Bakura snarls into it, lashing out like a caged monster.

If we could ever fall in love, and we both know that's never happening, maybe that's what our kisses would feel like. From the way he's glaring at me, he must think it too, because I know how much he hates the idea; the thought of love revolts him - he made this quite clear after our very first kiss. I just laugh against his mouth and scrape my nails across the cuts I've already left on his arms, drawing a sharp curse from him. For someone who takes such pride in his role as puppet master, it's so easy to pull his strings. I already know exactly how to play him.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" I say it like I already knows the answer - of course he wants me to. That's what this has all been leading up to, after all, and I've made it quite clear that I'm the one who's in control. I won't give that up for Bakura. I don't trust him enough - don't trust anyone enough.

"If that's what you want then I won't stop you," he says, almost as though what I'm asking doesn't involve him at all.

I'm pleased, though; this leaves me to do it my way, which suits me just fine. I can take Bakura, hard and harsh, bend him at my whim and he'll have no choice but to accept it. I imagine he'll like it, though - Bakura likes it when it hurts, and I like being in control. It works for both of us.

I hurry it along - no need to prolong the experience. It's the first time we've fucked each other, but there's no reason to make it special because I'm sure it won't be the last. I know just from when he's touched me in the past that Bakura is more addictive than nicotine, and probably twice as hard to quit. Anyway, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get enough of the high it gives me to feel him at my complete mercy for once. No, this certainly won't be the last time.

And so we don't try to make it special or memorable like some sickeningly romantic prolonged session of lovemaking. I probably wouldn't even have used lube if it wouldn't have been a tad dry and unpleasant for me without it.

Bakura clearly approves of the fast, hard and dirty approach to sex, if his half moans-half feral snarls are anything to go by. They're an oddly compelling noise, and I find myself almost surprised by how harshly I thrust into him just to try and draw that sound out again. I hate pain, so I really don't understand how he gets off on it so hard.

My breathing starts to become more ragged and erratic and I start to lose my rhythm, and he snaps me not to come inside him because he's not my property. Of course I make sure not to comply and do the opposite. He'd probably have taken a swing at me, but his face is buried in the pillows and I have a hand on the back of his neck to keep him there, so he can't do anything but hurl obscenities at me that are muffled by the bedclothes.

I don't spend long catching my breath once it's over. After I clean off a bit, I just pull my pants back on and make to leave. He glares up at me from where he lies on the sheets and I don't bother hiding a smirk.

"If you fucking come in or on me again next time, I'll kill you," he warns, and though it doesn't sound like he's joking, I laugh softly.

"I never said there'd be a next time."

I expect another scowl and some kind of snappy remark, but instead his face twists into a frightening grin as he stretches out leisurely on the bed, not even slightly embarrassed by his nakedness.

"You say that like you'll be able to stay away." His eyes are cold and dark as he speaks, but he's still smiling and it's almost chilling. "But if you want to think you have a choice, I'll let you."

I feel my power over him slipping and I turn my head before he can see it in my eyes, and stride to the door. My hand hovers above the handle for a brief second before I decide to exit the room without replying, leaving him alone and spread out on the bed.

'You're in control,' I tell myself. 'He's just messing with you.'

But despite this, I can't seem to shake off the creeping suspicion that maybe I'm the one being played with.


End file.
